Promises
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: Karen takes Bill up on his offer for breakfast.


_***Author's Note: Set shortly after Day Five.***_

* * *

Karen Hayes kept her promise.

Bill Buchanan smiles as he acknowledges this—she had told him, just one week ago, that she would keep him in CTU, and she'd made good on that vow. She had also promised to take him up on his offer for breakfast, and here he is, sitting inside a sleepy little diner at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning because she'd called him two days ago to quietly inquire about cashing in her raincheck.

He loves little places like this—the old-school diner car overlooking the beach, which is still grey and windy as the world slowly begins to wake, the neon jukebox sending out low notes of jazz (he silently thanks whomever chose the musical selection this morning), the warmth of the kitchen and the reassuring clattering of pots and pans and silverware and coffee cups. He feels connected to a greater whole, grounded in a mutual reality. He spends his days underground, surrounded by wires and computer screens, chasing down phantoms and bad guys and saving the world from ills that sound too fantastical to be true, living moments of a secret history that can never be shared with the ones whom he spent his life protecting—sometimes it is good to be able to slip into the insipidity of average life.

That is definitely a point in Karen's favor—he will never have to lie to her. He can always truly tell her about his day, knowing that she can handle the reality of their world.

He chuckles sheepishly at his own thoughts—he's already referring to her as if they're in a relationship, and they haven't even spent a single second together that wasn't work-related.

He loses his smile when he remembers that Karen might already be in a relationship—he remembers the thin gold band on her finger, and he reminds himself to proceed with caution. He's known women who wore their rings after their divorces, or who wore rings even when they'd never been married, as a shield against unwanted advances in the workplace. He hopes that this is the case with Karen, hopes that her agreement to breakfast means that she's lowering the shield for him, and hopes that he isn't hoping for too much.

Despite his hope, he continues to contemplate the significance of her ring. What if it isn't a shield? What if it really is a promise to a man whom she loves, to a life and a relationship with someone else? What then? Will he simply walk away, never speak to her again, pretend as if nothing ever happened?

No. Regardless of the uncertainty surrounding Karen Hayes' relationship status, Bill Buchanan is certain that he still wants to have her in his life, even if it is just as a friend. Because in the end, she still is one of the few people who can understand the unique stressors of his life and his work, and he isn't one to turn away a friend—he has so few of those, so few he can truly trust.

Propping his chin in his hand, he stares out at the tide rolling in, his mind turning over a little circlet of gold around a slim finger on a hand worn by hard work and time, attached to a woman with a smile that can make his heart flip-flop like a fish out of water.

* * *

Karen Hayes takes a moment to simply grip the steering wheel, green eyes focused on her wedding band. She's lost weight in the last eight months, and the ring is looser than it used to be—a sign of things to come (soon, it will simply fall off her finger, without thought or action, just as Benjamin is slipping away from her).

Benjamin. In all the years that she has known and loved her husband, she has never called him Ben, unless she is being facetious. She always calls him by his full name, and aside from his mother, she is the only one who does (though his mother is dead now, may she rest in peace—she thinks that is one of the things that he loved about her at first, the ways in which she reminds him of women from his past).

She wonders if Bill Buchanan noticed the ring (of course he did, he's quick and observant, he's the type of man who would have noticed fifty things about her the moment she first walked into CTU). She wonders why he still asked her to breakfast—he doesn't seem like the type to pursue a married woman, so maybe she misread the adorable hesitancy in the way he asked, maybe she misinterpreted the signals, misunderstood his boyish smile when he agreed to a raincheck. Oh, she hopes that she hasn't, because she hates looking foolish, and more than anything, she _wants_ Bill Buchanan to think of her in that way, wants him to want her, and she doesn't like considering the fact that perhaps he merely wants to be friends.

She can be his friend, if that's all he wants. He's a beautiful soul, a brilliant man who seems like he could be fun (when he isn't busy trying to prevent World War III)—he makes her smile, without even trying, and after the darkness of the past year, Karen Hayes is in desperate need of people who can make her smile.

She briefly thinks of all the ways that she'd like for him to make her smile, of all the things that she'd like to do to him that would make them both very, very happy. _Wicked, wicked girl. Karen Hayes, shame on you._

She thinks of how long it's been since she's had sex, since she's felt this way towards a man, since she's had the energy to even consider pursuing a physical relationship again.

Her husband isn't even dead yet and she's already warming up the sheets for someone else.

She has to be the worst person in the world.

Well, perhaps not the worst. Just last week, she had listened to one American president admit to the assassination of another while threatening to have his wife locked away in a mental institution, she'd tracked down a patriot-turned-traitor, she'd helped thwart other men attempting to kill innocent civilians with nerve gas—so in the grand scheme of things, thinking of sleeping with another man while still caring for her dying husband isn't the greatest crime against humanity.

She blinks back tears as she realizes that Benjamin wouldn't even notice—he's too far gone now, most days he's so drugged and disoriented that he doesn't even recognize her. Sometimes he calls her Rebecca, and she wonders who the hell that is, and why he beams so broadly at Rebecca, and why he can remember Rebecca but not _Karen_ , his wife of eighteen years and his lover for seven years before that.

Twenty five years. She's been with one man for more than half of her life. Except he's no longer the man he was, all those years ago—he isn't even the man that he was two years ago.

 _Jesus H. Christ, Karen, you're just a regular ray of freaking sunshine_ , her inner voice reprimands herself for the tears brimming in her eyes. She looks in the rearview mirror and dabs them away, quickly checking her hair and makeup again ( _it's just breakfast, not a real date, don't think too much, don't put too much into this, don't over-analyze it, like you always do_ ).

It is in moments like this that she is most grateful for her job, for the fast pace and the mind-consuming workload, for the rare peace that comes from being able to push aside her personal life and simply focus on the situation at hand, because there isn't any time for emotions or relationships or wailing at the injustices of life as we know it.

However, this is not part of her job. This is the exact opposite of work. This is play.

God. She really should not label Bill Buchanan as _play_ —it's too easy for her thoughts to devolve into a running mantra of all the games she would like to play with him. _One-track mind, you horrible woman._

One more deep breath, then it's out of the car and into the early morning air, slipping into her usual brisk pace, clipping into the diner.

Of course, he's already there. That doesn't surprise her at all.

He smiles when he sees her, and she can't stop her own face from beaming in return (dear god, she actually felt a flutter in her stomach, those infamous butterflies that have catalogued every description of love from ages past, and she's not even sure if he _likes_ her—what kind of sad, soppy woman is she?).

He feels his heart skip a beat at her smile, and he hates to think that she could ever smile like that at anyone else, hates to imagine that he might spend the rest of his life being slain by that smile and by the realization that she's merely smiling at him the way she smiles at all of her friends.

"I knew you'd beat me here," she's still beaming at him, completely unable to control her stupid grin. She thinks that he's probably going to suspect that she's high or drunk, if she doesn't get her mouth in-check. Why else would someone look like a Cheshire cat over something as mundane as breakfast? (She knows the answer, but she hopes that he doesn't.)

However, he's too busy smiling back at her to notice—she's so much brighter than the last time he saw her, her hair is down (a small but powerful transformation, he thinks he likes it better this way) and she's moving more easily in her blue jeans and flats, so much more relaxed and comfortable. He knows that he would like to see more of this side of Karen Hayes (perhaps even more relaxed sides of her, in much more intimate settings—he stops himself from completing that thought, berates himself for his naughty mind).

"You look good," he can't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, and he instantly regrets them ( _really, Bill, that's how you're going to start this?_ ). But Karen blushes at his statement and she looks so lovely when she blushes that he suddenly doesn't mind saying stupid things, if it makes her smile and brings such a pretty flush to her cheeks.

"It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do," she returns easily. "Last time we saw each other, we'd been up all night."

Oh, that might not have been the best phrasing, because of course, her mind thinks of such a statement in a very different setting ( _dear god, Karen, what is wrong with you?_ ), and she can't stop herself from blushing at the thought ( _dead giveaway, great job_ ).

The flush in Karen's cheeks is deepening, and Bill thinks maybe he's done something wrong. However, she's slipping into the diner booth before he can figure it out, easily shifting gears by glancing at the menu, "So, what's good?"

"Actually, I've never been here before," he admits, also turning his attention to the menu. "I saw this place a few weeks ago, and thought it looked nice. I like trying new things."

"Ah." ( _Karen Hayes, don't you dare think about that statement out of context...don't you dare...dammit._ )

Karen is focused on the menu, which allows Bill to simply watch her—he takes in this new angle on her face, the absentminded way that she brushes her hair behind her ears, the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth in indecision, how the shirt she is wearing today is much lower-cut than her button-down from a week ago, how he can see the first swell and shadows of her cleavage, how he wishes that he could see more, how horrible he is for wishing such a thing.

She silently makes her choice, gives a small curt nod to herself, then glances up at him, her green eyes stopping his lungs as she inquires, "So, do you know what you want?"

 _You_. That single word is the only thought that his brain is capable of expressing in this moment, and he hopes to every god in heaven that she can't read his mind. _Good grief, Bill, what is wrong with you?_

"Uh, yeah," he quickly recovers, and she leans forward, choosing to look on his menu as he points to his choice. She gives a small hum of approval, and he loves the sound.

The waitress comes by, getting Karen a cup of coffee and taking their orders. Once the server leaves, Karen doctors her cuppa until it's a light beige, so full of half-and-half and sugar that Bill can't help but smile.

She sees his smile and gives a small shake of her head, "I know, it's more cream than coffee. My husband says that it completely defeats the purpose of having coffee at all."

Ah, so there is an actual marriage behind the wedding ring. Bill is surprised by how deeply the news affects him, how his chest tightens at the knowledge—after all, he's known this woman for only a week, and during that time, he's only spent one day with her.

Karen shocks herself with how easily that information slipped out, and she mentally kicks herself—it's so easy to mention Benjamin, because he's been a part of her conversations and her life for the past quarter of a century, but god, she hadn't wanted to bring him up within the first five minutes of her breakfast with Bill. Still, it is true—she is still very much married, despite her feelings towards the man sitting across the table, and they were going to have to cross this bridge eventually.

"I wondered if there really was a Mr. Hayes," he admits quietly, taking a sip of his coffee in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

"Ah, yes," she stares down at the gold band on her finger as if she's seeing it for the first time. She finds herself wanting to explain, to tell him that she won't be married for much longer, and she hates herself for wanting to capitalize on her husband's imminent demise. There's too much to explain, she feels, yet she finds herself offering her usual correction, "And it's not—Hayes is my maiden name. He's Dr. Adelson."

"What kind of doctor?" Bill tries to keep the conversation moving, tries to show her that he can simply be her friend, that he won't shut down just because she's married.

"PhD in Sociology." She sheepishly adds, "He was my professor in grad school."

"Karen Hayes, teacher's pet," Bill prides himself on how carefree he sounds, how he's able to infuse a playful teasing into his tone that he doesn't truly feel. "And Dr. Adelson doesn't have an issue with you driving out to the coast to have breakfast with strange men?"

Karen blushes slightly at the implication, looking out the window at the grey morning as she tries to keep her conflicting emotions in-check, "He isn't...he wouldn't mind—I mean, he doesn't mind, because he's not...he's in the final stages of Huntington's disease, so he's not...he's not really here anymore."

Bill feels like he's been sucker-punched in the gut—here he is, pouting over the fact that Karen Hayes is married, and she's dealing with slowly losing her husband to a horrible disease.

"I'm so sorry, Karen," he means every word of that statement.

She quickly blinks back a few tears as she forces a small smile, but she keeps her face turned to the window and he knows that she doesn't want him to see her cry. She's a strong woman; she doesn't want pity.

"It's OK," she says quietly. "We've spent the last fifteen years waiting for it to get this bad, so it's not like we were completely blindsided."

The waitress comes back with their food, and Karen slips into a moment of reverie. Benjamin Adelson had been an enigmatic man with a deep soul and a sharp mind, and she'd never met anyone like him (of course, the fact that he was over twice her age probably helped inspire the awe that she'd felt towards him). And by the time she dropped out of grad school less than a year later, they were already in a full-blown relationship. She would have been content with never marrying and simply spending the rest of their lives together—at least until she'd found out that she was pregnant during year seven of their relationship, and then Karen Hayes realized with frightening clarity that she was still old-fashioned in many ways. Benjamin understood, and he agreed that their child should be born to two loving married parents. A few weeks later, the pregnancy was over with a painless glob of clotted blood (so strange, she never felt any kind of warning, as if her body had simply and oh-so-politely said _no, thank you_ ), and she wondered how something so small and seemingly insignificant could hold such emotional power over her. And though the baby was gone, their sudden desire to be married was not. She legally became Mrs. Benjamin Adelson, though she kept her own last name in her professional dealings.

Despite her previous aversion to the idea of marriage, she'd actually found that she enjoyed being on the other side of the ampersand, part of a set, a piece that belonged with another piece. By the time that Karen Hayes walked into CTU, the _Dr_. before her _& Mrs_. was slowly slipping away (when they were younger, she'd hardly noticed the twenty-four year gap in their ages, but suddenly it seemed like a gulf that stretched much wider), and her heart was heavy with the knowledge that within a matter of months, he would be gone.

These are not the things about which she wants to be thinking—not on such a pretty day, not when she's seated across the table from a charming man at a charming little diner, not when the rest of the world seems so rosy and perfect. Still, the practical side of Karen admits that this conversation had to happen sooner or later, so it might as well happen now, before they get any deeper into whatever this is between them.

"I can't even imagine what you're going through," Bill admits quietly, unsure of what else to say, unsure of how to let her know that he cares, that he isn't simply offering weak platitudes because it's an expected part of social etiquette.

"We've had a lot of good years together," she assures him, something that people have told her for so long that she's adopted it as her mantra. There is truth in the statement, but there is also an angry part of her hurting heart that wants to yell back that it doesn't change the current hell, that they should have had many more good years ahead of them, if fate wasn't such a bastard. However, over the last two years, that angry part has become smaller and weaker, and she knows it's useless to fight the tide of good intention.

"Do you...do you have someone helping you take care of him?" Bill isn't sure where the line is (what is appropriate to ask, what isn't, how do you show that you care without seeming morbid?), but he wants Karen to know that he does care about her and her life.

Karen takes a slight breath, and he knows that he's hit a sore spot. Still, she answers, "He's no longer with me. Two years ago, when it started to get really bad, he insisted on being moved to an assisted living facility. It specializes in...in cases like ours."

She gives a small, mirthless smile as she adds, "He chose it himself. I didn't even...I came home one day and he'd arranged everything. Said it was so that I could continue my work with Homeland Security."

Benjamin's words echo in her mind— _I don't want to hold you back, Karen, I would never want you to sacrifice everything you've worked so hard for, not when you've already given so much over the years, not after all the ways you've taken care of me for so long_.

He was and still is a good man, Karen knows this. She wishes that she could be the wife that he deserves—not one who runs headlong into her work as a way to distract herself from his situation, not one who thinks of how lovely it would be to lose herself for a few hours with a man whom she's only just met, not one who consistently chooses her career over him, time and again. She wishes that she wasn't so weak, so afraid, so eager to entrust her husband into the care of strangers. Sadly, wishing doesn't make it so.

She can feel Bill Buchanan's eyes on her as she turns her attention to her plate, and she feels a slight flutter of irritation.

"Please don't pity me, Bill," she commands, though her voice has a softer edge.

"I'm not—I don't—I mean, I just feel like a complete ass," he admits, his hands fluttering in a helpless gesture. "I mean, you're going through what must be a very emotional and exhausting time, and here I am, just thinking of—"

He stops himself before he finishes that statement, but Karen Hayes isn't the dullest tool in the shed, and she immediately pounces upon his last words, her green eyes shooting up to meet his blue ones, the fork in her hand impossibly still as she prompts, "Just thinking of what?"

A heavy beat passes, the air weighted with anticipation and screaming curiosity as they simply look at each other (and Bill thinks that surely she knows, surely those green eyes have pierced his mind and his soul and read him like a book).

However, if she has read his mind, she still expects him to speak those thoughts aloud, because she is still staring at him, quietly waiting for him to answer her question. Bill squirms uncomfortably under her gaze—now it is his turn to look out the window, to avoid her eyes as he tries to find the most diplomatic way to say this, "I...I didn't exactly have the purest of intentions whenever I asked you out to breakfast."

 _Oh, my_. Karen feels her entire body stop for a full beat—so she hadn't misread the signs. Well, if Bill Buchanan is going to be brave enough to lay all his cards on the table, then so is she.

"I know," Karen replies quietly, and he turns back to her, his expression bordering between shock and delight as she continues. "And that's the exact same reason I said yes."

She's blushing again, because he's got that sweet boyish smile dancing at the corner of his mouth again (and it's ridiculous because that almost-smile sets off a chemical reaction deep in her lungs, and how can she feel like smiling, too, when they're talking about the fact that she's just admitted to willingly committing adultery?). Her eyes move away from his as she quietly regains composure.

"I know this isn't...this probably wasn't what you were expecting," she fumbles, searches for the right way to say this (is there a right way to say such things?), tries to detach her emotions from the situation as much as possible. "And I understand—I really do understand—if this is more than you'd like to...I realize that everyone comes with a certain amount of baggage, but this is more than the usual stuff and—"

"And that's completely OK," his voice stops her, and she looks back up at his face. He reaches across the table to take her hand, and the warmth from his skin seeps into her own, slithering up her arm and into her lungs and for a moment she forgets to breathe because the tenderness in his touch is reverent and comforting and so many other things that she hasn't felt in such a long time.

Karen's eyes latch onto his, and Bill's heart actually skips a beat again. There's wonder, admiration, and something… _desirous_ in her expression, and it's the last element that makes his mind race. It's thrilling, knowing that he can inspire such a reaction, especially in this woman who creates such a similar response within himself. This is what appears when they're simply sitting at a diner—what will happen when the setting changes, when the touches become more than the innocent light brushes they've exchanged?

She reads his thoughts again, because she blushes, but doesn't break away. Instead, she bites her bottom lip, ever-so-slighty, her eyes lighting up with the same girlishness that shone through last week, whenever they'd agreed to a raincheck. He wants very much to have that same privilege—to be able to bite that lip, to soothe it again with his own—and he's slightly shocked by the sudden and visceral hit of such a desire.

"So," she pulls back slightly, breaks whatever little spell they've woven in this cozy little booth in this cozy little diner. "It's OK."

"It's OK," he repeats, grinning like a fool because he knows they're talking code about what happens next. He sits back as well, taking another sip of his coffee. He can wait. He can let the little sparks like this build into a good and proper fire, the kind that offers the most exquisitely delicious type of relief. Karen Hayes is a woman worth waiting for. Every second of further interaction proves this point, over and over again.

She glances out the window again, studies the coastline. "I love the ocean. Something very calming about it, I've always felt."

He hums in agreement, takes a glance out the window as well (though the view inside is much more enchanting). "Maybe we could go for a walk. If you have time, of course."

She's beaming at him again. "I'd like that."

He nods, goes back to his breakfast. The conversation drifts to more mundane things, but it isn't strained or even annoying to discuss trivial matters—not with her, not when she's still smiling in a way that makes him feel relaxed, not when it's a glimpse into her mind and its workings.

When they finally reach the beach, she takes off her shoes and rolls up the cuffs of her jeans, and convinces him to do the same. He makes a funny noise when the cold water greets his bare toes, and she laughs at him. He doesn't mind, because her laughter is infectious.

He wants to kiss her. She wants to kiss him. It sings between their eyes and zips from one smile to another like electricity on a circuit.

But they don't. She finds herself wanting to prove that she still has some measure of fidelity to her husband, and he finds himself wanting to prove that this is about something more than a physical distraction. So they look, and they want, and they wait.

All too soon, they are back at Karen's car, saying their goodbyes. This time, they share a hug—she keeps her face close to his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his cologne, and he holds her, quietly committing the way she feels against him to memory. She doesn't step back, but looks up at him, their faces so close that a kiss would only be a breath away.

"We should do this again," she breaks the moment of heavy silence, tearing her eyes from his mouth to meet his own blue orbs.

"We will do this again," he corrects, grinning as she lights up in response.

"Yes. We will," she promises as she moves away, gently running her hands down her side to smooth out the lines of her clothing.

Those last two words only deepen Bill's smile.

Karen Hayes keeps her promises. He knows that, for a fact.


End file.
